


The Lights Are as Bright as Ever

by Mr Son (MrSon)



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Brainwashing, M/M, dubcon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-07
Updated: 2015-06-14
Packaged: 2018-02-20 05:51:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2417336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrSon/pseuds/Mr%20Son
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You know you’re not a good person. You make mistakes, you think bad thoughts, you’re dangerous, and if it wasn’t for him you’d probably have been put down to prevent you from hurting anyone else. But he thinks he can help you to be better, and you’re grateful to be in his hands. Even if it’s really difficult to avoid being a complete failure.</p><p>(Note to the Yogscast: Do not read any of my fics on stream.)<br/>(I do not support the Yogscast company. I write because I enjoy the characters.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Lights Are as Bright as Ever

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to allthe-lights-inthe-sky for help with brainstorming and proofreading.
> 
> This fic owes its existence to [this picture](http://mr-son-shrimp.tumblr.com/post/98787233885/wallcorpse-for-science) (NSFW). allthe-lights-inthe-sky and I were talking about Lalnable stuff, and this picture came to our attention and allthe-lights-inthe-sky suggested that what if Lalnable wasn't actually dangerous and Xephos was keeping him around as a sex toy slave? ...So this happened.

=== === ===

You don’t remember how long you’ve been living in the glass room.

You have to stay here until you’re better.

Sometimes he says you’re improving, but then you always seem to backslide. You just can’t keep behaving for long.

You frequently reach through the flap in the door that your food gets delivered through. You know it’s wrong -- it loses you lots of behavior credits -- but the testificates aren’t always willing to risk putting their hands through the hole to place the food inside. You’ve gotten in the habit of taking pre-meal naps, because they’re more likely to put the food inside if you’re asleep. And then you don’t get tempted to reach out and get it for yourself, like a thief. A proper person would be able to resist the temptation, but it’s so hard when the food is just on the other side of the door, and enticing smells drift through the opening.

You’re getting better about focusing when it’s time to do your work. If you solve all the problems he brings you by the time limit, you get to keep the leftover paper and crayons for an extra hour to do whatever you want with. And you learned really quickly not to call your time limit a “deadline”. Mentioning death is morbid and creepy. You were very good about correcting yourself; he even praised you for how fast you learned.

Recently you drew a picture of a yellow dinosaur on one of your extra papers, and he hung it up on the wall outside so you can look at it whenever you want. At the time you felt a little wasteful using a whole page on a silly doodle instead of something more exciting, like electrical diagrams, but now you’re happy because he let you keep this one. It really helps you feel like you’re making progress, even on the hard days.

Hard days like most of this week.

It started with the flu. It was only for two days, but you threw up all over. You had to wash the whole floor -- vomit splashes really far on glass. You were so tired, but you couldn’t just leave it there. Even if the smell wasn’t unbearable, you’d lose behavior credits. Good people don’t live in their own filth. Mopping the entire floor while woozy from the fever took a long time, but he gave you a ginger sweet as a reward and that helped you feel less sick.

Most people don’t get rewards for basic standards of decency, he reminded you, but you were a very bad case and needed more encouragement to avoid being cruel enough to do things like making other people clean up a mess you made yourself.

Once your fever died back and you stopped sweating constantly, you spent a few of your saved behavior credits to get clean sheets early. It was so nice to snuggle down into fresh sheets while you finished recovering. But when you woke up from your first night using them, you reached out for your glasses and knocked your bedside cup of water onto the bed.

You tried not to cry when you got docked behavior credits for carelessness, and had to spend even more to get a dry mattress and more new sheets. It was almost enough to make you want to request going back to having a sippy cup for your bedside water. But your behavior rewards are lower when you need aids like that to avoid misbehaving. You’ll just have to be more careful. You almost have enough saved up to buy another personal time reward from Xephos and you don’t want to miss out.

The rest of the week has been spent on regaining your lost credits. It’s been slow going. He doesn’t have as many problems for you to solve as usual, so your work rewards are down. And you lost a few credits when you were told that Honeydew had come by and you hadn’t gotten to see him. You feel bad about insulting the testificate; it wasn’t their fault you didn’t see Honeydew waving at you while you were listening to your music. You shouldn’t have wasted credits on that song anyway. It had been more expensive because it had some cussing in it and you needed to prove you were being good enough to handle the bad influence.

And today he hasn’t brought any work problems in at all. You sit at the table and pick at your mac and cheese. Normally the hot dogs in it would have made you happy -- any sort of meat is a special event, since too much tended to make you act more violently, at least that’s what he’d told you after they had to put you under emergency sedation a few months back -- but you had been planning to use your after work time to get down the ideas you’ve been thinking about on solar panel efficiency, and now you’re worried you might forget before you have a chance to write.

You’re feeling pretty restless after a couple of hours with nothing to do, and you’ve only been pacing for a short time -- on the other side of the room from the door, to avoid threatening passing testificates and losing behavior credits -- when the knock comes. You start, turning reflexively to see who it is. Xephos raises his eyebrow at you pointedly, and you spin around and press your hands against the glass above your head.

“Better.” he says as he opens the outer door of the safety lock and seals it behind him. He’s the only one allowed to enter your room when you’re conscious. He said you were much more violent to the testificates who would try to enter in the past. Your memories from back then are fuzzy and faded, but you remember attacking him savagely, and don’t want to imagine what you might have done to the poor testificates. It’s been a long time since you tried to hurt Xephos though. You really must be getting better. Maybe some day you’ll have learned to control yourself enough to take walks outside, if you have a minder to keep an eye on you.

You know the room inch by inch, and can follow his steps exactly as he walks over to the table and drops what sounds like a stack of papers onto it. “I’ve changed the prices of your rewards. Here’s your copy of the list. Be careful with this. Remember, paper is precious.” He steps over to your dresser and opens the top drawer. There’s a shuffle of papers as he picks up your old list before leaving the room again.

As the outer door’s seal hisses shut, you turn and immediately plop yourself down at the table. Price changes are always exciting. Sometimes things get more expensive and you have to go without luxuries like sweets and brightly-colored clothes and reference books for your non-work related studies, but sometimes things get cheaper.

You scan your finger down the pages until you find the item you’d been saving for. The personal time reward has gone down by almost fifteen percent! Your current credit total rings in your head like a bell. You can afford it! You could buy it right now!

You dash to your terminal and switch on the screen, ignoring the twinge of guilt for engaging in a reckless activity like running. But Xephos has already gone, so he hasn’t seen you to take credits away, and right now you’re desperate to get your request keyed in before you do something serious and lose too many to afford it.

You press each key carefully with shaking hands. You can’t enter anything wrong and void the request. You can’t accidentally request the wrong thing. This is too important to screw up.

When you’re finished, the terminal beeps its acceptance and you turn it back off. Your credits are almost drained now. You’ll only be able to afford to cover small things now, like flavored toothpaste and socks with rocket ships on them and pepper for your soups, or important things like replacing broken dishes and ruined clothing or getting cleaning supplies better than bleach-soaked washcloths.

You sit down in the chair and absently read over the new prices while waiting for a response. You usually get responses to personal time requests within an hour. Your eyes skim over the pages without really registering much. Ketchup for your burgers is down. Burgers are down. Pink shoelaces are up. Only the pink ones though. That’s strange. Wait, toy dinosaurs? That’s a new one! How exciting! You can’t wait to save up enough to get the t-rex. It’s the priciest, but it would be worth it. Even if you would have to give up sweetened porridge if want to save up for it quickly.

The terminal lights up with a sharp beep, and you stand and manage to walk over slowly this time. **Request granted**. A smile stretches across your face as you note the scheduled time and click to open the terminal’s clock display. It’s in a little over two hours. You switch the terminal off again and sit down on the floor, feeling giddy. If you were seen sitting on the floor you’d be scolded, but it isn’t an offense worthy of credit loss, so you can’t bring yourself to care right now.

You’ve done it. You’re going to get your personal time with Xephos.

Two hours of failed attempts to read through the new prices later, you hear the knock at the door. You lower your face to the table, and set the papers down before putting your hands behind your back. You wait as he makes his way through the door lock and approaches you. Your heart pounds in your chest as the handcuffs click around your wrists and the mask is lowered over your head. You know it’s to keep you from getting the urge to lunge at anyone or bite them, but you dislike the way it means you have to be led blind through the hallways. You’d complained, once, only to be told that everyone has to put up with things they don’t like. It’s part of being in society, and if you can’t deal with it, how will you ever rejoin society? So you keep your feelings to yourself now.

The rope drags briefly across your wrists as he ties it to the handcuffs. This is to catch you if you try to charge at anyone. You never intend to, but you keep waking up from sedation in your room with a warning note on your terminal and a notice of lost credits for aggressive behavior.

“You can stand up now.”

You turn in your chair and start adjusting your balance to force yourself up, but it’s hard with your hands behind your back. He’s kind enough to take your shoulder and help keep you steady.

You want to lean into him, but you’re not allowed. You might end up shoving him to the ground and hurting him, even if you don’t want to at the moment. Your mood is unstable and that’s dangerous. He’s willing to explain this to you even though he doesn’t need to; you can tell for yourself. You know sometimes you burst into laughter, or tears, for no reason when nothing is happening. You know sometimes you wake up furious at nothing you can explain. You need to learn to control your emotions before other people can be safe around you.

His hand presses on your shoulder and you’re led towards the door. You don’t really need his guidance until you’re outside, in unfamiliar territory, but you’re happy to have his touch. You appreciate the risks he takes with you before you’ve really learned to handle yourself. The fact that you can buy personal time with him at all is a big deal when you’re still such a threat to everyone. He’s the only one who can manage you safely, and he keeps taking extra steps to make sure you can have moments like this to enjoy.

You walk carefully and focus on calm, peaceful thoughts. It would be awful if you had an episode and hurt him badly enough he could no longer care for you and try to teach you to be better. You’d probably be put down as hopeless by anyone else, but he’s optimistic about your potential. He thinks you can learn and grow to be more than this.

He squeezes your shoulder to stop you, and turns you through a doorway. The door closes behind you and you hear the click of a lock.

“Kneel.”

You drop to your knees immediately, and wait as he walks away for a moment, then comes back and begins tying your arms into place behind you. The handcuffs are sufficient for walking the halls, where guards are armed with tranqs to subdue you if necessary, but in this more personal setting you need to be better restrained. Once he finishes, tugging each knot experimentally to make sure everything is secure, he takes away the handcuffs. You wiggle your wrists a little to shake off the illusion that the metal is still touching you, then wait as he lifts the mask off your head.

“Would you prefer to speak now, or after?”

You lick your lips, tasting the sweat that dripped down your face while you were wearing the mask. “After.” You open your mouth so he can put in the gag to prevent you from biting.

He helps you to your feet, once it’s tied into place, and guides you over to the bed, which is the only piece of furniture in the dim room. It’s a much finer bed than yours. For special occasions, you were told. You’re glad that he also thinks of these times as special occasions.

You sit down on the edge of the bed, your tongue rubbing against the rubber of the ball gag. He leans down over you, and the shifting air brushes its cool touch over your face. Your cheeks are warm, and you know you’re blushing as he leans into to press his face against your neck.

“Be still.” he murmurs, and you’re trying, but your shoulders are trembling with anticipation as his hands push your coat back and settle against your sides. The fabric of your shirt is thin, and you can feel spots of heat from his fingers as they slowly slip downwards.

Your goggles fall down off your forehead and land over your eyes in a way that doesn’t really let you see through them at all. He reaches up and pushes them up to the top of your head, murmuring something about not covering up your eyes, as his other hand drifts past your belly and lowers itself towards your waistline. You spread your legs as his other hand joins the first in slowly undoing your belt buckle.

His hands fumble and you can feel tugging on your shirt as it tangles with the catch on the buckle. He pulls his head away with a growl and shoves your shirt up to your chest, but when he returns his attention to your belt it falls over his hands again. He scowls down at your hem for a moment, then reaches into his coat and pulls out a pocket knife.

You stare as he unfolds the blade and grabs a fistfull of your shirt, pulling it away from your skin. You’ve never been allowed a knife -- you’d only stab someone. But he slices in sharp, swift motions that don’t even touch the hairs on your skin. You hope that one day you’ll have enough control over yourself that you can be trusted like that.

Part of you is upset at the loss of your favorite shirt, but it’s hard to think about such things with his hands settling to your belt again, easing the buckle free and gently sliding your trousers down your thighs. You drop your head back with a moan as the air hits your bared skin. You used to think you’d lose credits for going without underwear, but had eventually been informed that this, at least, was perfectly normal.

You lift your head to watch him admire your growing erection. He makes a pleased hum and reaches forward to stroke a single finger along your length. You shudder, but manage to keep yourself from bucking into his touch.

He leans in and kisses the corner of your mouth where the strap from the gag digs into your skin, his beard tickling against your own. “You’re being very good so far.” he says as he gently rubs his thumb along the inside of your thigh, “Stay still.”

You have to concentrate to obey while he dips a hand into his coat briefly. He smiles as he pulls out a large black ring, placing it on the head of your penis. “Shush.” he commands when you whimper at the pressure of him carefully forcing it down your shaft, until it’s snug against the base.

He runs the fingers of one hand through your soft pubes, while the other begins slowly stroking your hardening length. You try to concentrate on your breathing to keep yourself from squirming under his touch, but you need to keep swallowing as your saliva builds up and threatens to get into your airways, and that brings your attention to your tongue against the rubber of your gag.

A tongue you’d love to run over the form straining to escape his pants. You can’t get the thought out of your head, as terrible as it is. You shouldn’t want such things. Putting someone in your mouth like that? You’ve been told many times how cannibalistic thoughts are an enormous hurdle on your path to recovery. You’re ashamed of having such violent desires. But you can’t stop wanting it.

He glances up from the attention he’s paying to your shaft and meets your gaze. “Getting a bit eager, are you?” he asks, taking his hands away and shrugging his coat off, letting it fall in a heap on the floor behind him. He reaches for the hem of his shirt and slowly begins pulling it up. “I’m glad to oblige when you’re being this well-behaved.”

If you weren’t wearing the gag you would tell him about your awful desire. Hiding bad thoughts loses you credits not only for the failure itself, but also for being dishonest. And shaking your head would be disobedient -- you’d been told to hold still -- so you promise yourself you’ll speak up as soon as you’re able. Hopefully that will be close enough to honesty that you’ll only deserve ‘cannibalistic thoughts’ demerits.

His shirt falls to the floor and you can feel the pulsing tension of your blood inside your member. Your fingers twitch with the urge to touch yourself, but with your arms tied down for safety, you’d never be able to reach. And you’d lose credits for trying; masturbation is anti-social and hinders your ability to bond emotionally with others. And the whole point of this moment is to bond with Xephos.

You still your hands with the thought of driving him away from you by your indecent behavior, and wait while he finishes stepping out of his trousers. The thin fabric of his underwear completely fails to hide the shape beneath it, and as he slides it down you catch yourself leaning forward and stop still, just before his erection pops over the top of the elastic.

He drops the pants and takes a step away from the bed, his member bobbing with the motion. He raises a hand as if to catch it, then pulls away, a reminder that even he feels common temptations. But he has the will to resist -- a feat you’re still far from learning.

You turn your head to follow as he walks a circuit around the room. This is special practice for you to learn to keep control over your lust. You have to stay still, and wait for him to return to you. Most people don’t need to practice such things, but you’re a difficult case and need extra attention.

You’re getting a lot better at it. Today you manage to focus on the feel of the gag stretching out your mouth, and the air flowing in and out of your nose, and the hint of soreness in your shoulders from the safety restraints. Only your eyes move as Xephos finishes a third circle of the room and stops in front of you. His penis is swaying gently in the air and you can’t look away until his hand lands on your shoulder.

“You’re not looking at me.”

You yank your gaze up to his face. Refusing to make eye contact is anti-social and insulting. You're ashamed that you needed the reminder -- another sign that you still have a lot to learn before you can be trusted outside of your room. He smiles at you. “That’s better.”

He takes you gently by the chin and tilts your head back, leaning down to gaze closely into your eyes. “They’re such a lovely shade of blue.” You wish he’d complement you on something you’ve done instead of on your physical features, but if you want it that much you should try to do more that’s actually worth complementing. He gives you a soft kiss on the tip of your nose before adding, “It’s such a shame.”

You close your eyes for a moment in regret. You know how much of a shame it is that someone as lovely as you has to be so terrible. You have to keep yourself hidden away from people who could enjoy seeing you, or they would get hurt. Sometimes you feel like a rose with toxic thorns.

When you open your eyes again, he's smiling down at you. He releases your chin and asks, “Ready?”

You nod, and he puts a hand on your chest and helps you fall backwards into the bed. You spread your knees as wide as you can, and stare up at the lights in the ceiling while you listen to him dig through his coat pockets for the lube.

The anticipation doesn’t keep the cold liquid from being a shock when he nudges your testicles out of the way to squirt it over your opening. You tense automatically, but make yourself relax as a finger circles your hole. You whine as the finger slips into you, small and teasing. A second follows swiftly, and they spread apart, stretching you out swiftly enough that it’s almost painful.

He wiggles his fingers inside you, and you catch yourself holding your breath and force yourself to continue taking in air. A third finger pushing its way in makes you gasp spit into your airways, and you start coughing. He doesn’t stop moving his fingers inside you as you fight to catch your breath. Which isn’t surprising; you are the one who asked for his time. To interrupt him for such a minor inconvenience would be incredibly rude.

The force of your coughing makes your shoulders ache, but after a few spasms you manage to steady your breathing. He’s still thrusting his fingers into you, and occasionally he pauses to wriggle them inside, and you moan happily and relax in the feeling of his skin against yours.

His hand pulls away, and you groan, disappointed to lose his touch, but excited for what will come next. He grabs you under your knees and pushes your legs up and out, your back crushing your arms to the bed and making your shoulders burn delightfully.

You moan and try to lift your legs higher as he kneels on the bed between them, his erection brushing lightly against your own. He shoves one of your legs up and over his shoulder, pinning the other down to the bed, and you yelp as you’re twisted onto your side, a sharp pain shooting through one of your arms.

He pauses a moment to glance at your face, and you nod slightly at him to keep going. The pain is already fading somewhat, and you don’t want to get tranquilized to have a medic check you out when you’re probably not even actually injured. Especially with the difficulty of saving up for these personal moments with Xephos.

He nods back and reaches down to position himself. You only manage to relax yourself properly a moment before he thrusts into you, sinking all the way deep in one movement. You turn your face into the sheets and try not to pant as he slides slowly out of you before thrusting again. As he settles into a slow, tireless rhythm, he leans down and kisses the side of your face.

“Don’t hide your eyes.” he reminds you, and you turn your face back. He brushes a bit of hair off your forehead with a smile. “That’s right. Look at me.”

His thrusts speed up, and you gasp and almost start coughing again. He leans down over you, pressing himself into you. One of your hands is starting to go numb, but you barely notice under the intensity of his body sliding against yours; your hairy chests rubbing together like velvet on fur. He plants soft kisses on your neck as he pounds into you, and his fingers leave tingling trails as his hands explore your skin.

A thumb brushes up the length of your shaft and you jerk and shake your head swifty. If he starts touching you you’ll come in moments, and he should get his release first. You’re the one who asked for his attention, and it’s your job to make sure he enjoys his time with you. You groan as he takes his hand away again. You know you shouldn’t be selfish, but you do want him to touch you. You want him to stroke you until you come in his hand. You want him to dip his fingers in your seed and lick each one slowly clean in front of you.

You pull out of those thoughts sharply. It’s bad enough to have cannibalistic desires; you don’t need to go projecting them onto decent people like him.

Abruptly, he stops thrusting, pulling away, and you whimper at the sudden emptiness. He reaches past your head and retrieves one of the pillows, folding it in half and pushing it under your hips. Pain flares briefly in your shoulders, then fades to a comfortable burn while he arranges your legs around his waist. Your numb hand is starting to ache and tingle, but you can’t care about that when he’s pushing back inside you and resuming his swift thrusts.

The burn in your shoulders pulses with the same rhythm as the pressure in your erection, and you have to concentrate on tensing small muscles in your arms and neck one at a time to keep yourself from coming early and spoiling this for him.

He pulls out for a moment, then pounds deep into you, starting a new rhythm of very slowly out, and swiftly in. Every thrust makes you squeak, and from his smile he seems to appreciate the sound. You want to close your eyes and just feel him inside of you, but you can’t deprive him of that shade of blue he likes so much. Every time a jolt of pain in your arms makes you squeeze your eyes shut, you force them open again, and keep your gaze turned up to meet his patient smile.

He leans down over you again, dropping his hands on each side of your head and watching your face as his thrusts steady back into a swift rhythm. He reaches down and moves your testicles to the side as he increases his speed, until you can hardly breath under his rapid pounding. You suck air in desperately and force your legs further open to keep yourself from wrapping them around his and trapping him. The fingers of your good hand twist into the sheets beneath you as waves of tingling and pressure wash over the other.

Xephos drops his head against your neck and moans as he comes, his pace gradually slowing until he stops, fully inside you, kissing your neck and murmuring wordless noises into your skin.

You stop your whine as it starts; begging is unseemly, and would ruin his afterglow. Your hips are starting to feel the strain of staying spread wide for him, but you keep them open with only minimal trembling. You wait, breathing as softly as possible to avoid disturbing him, until he pulls himself upright and slips his softening member out of you.

“Thank you.” he says, reaching down to run his fingers over the head of your penis. He trails his fingers down your shaft, then closes them around the base. His grip squeezes the rubber of the cock ring into you, and you can’t stop the desperate moan from escaping. He laughs as he starts to pump your shaft with short, quick strokes, and it doesn’t take long before your breath catches and your release drips onto your belly.

He lets you go to run his fingers through the liquid, then rips off a scrap of your ruined shirt and wipes his fingers clean. “You seem to be improving.” He drops the wet scrap into the small puddle on your front and pushes himself off the bed. “Wait a bit longer, and I’ll re-tie you so we can talk before you have to go back.”

You manage to nod, and he bends down to pick his clothes off the floor and starts pulling them back on. Once he’s clothed, he stands beside the bed and grabs your shoulder to pull you upright; you’re grateful for the assistance. With his guidance, you move up to the headrest, and he has you kneel on the pillows before securing your hands and ankles to the metal bars.

Once he’s sure you’re safe and can’t break the knots, he unties the gag and slips it into his pocket. After a moment’s thought, he reaches down and slowly drags the ring off your fading erection. You hiss at being touched while still sensitive from your orgasm, but he forgivingly says nothing about the inappropriate sound.

“There we go.” He smiles as you try to adjust your jaw without opening your mouth threateningly. “Now we can relax and get all the things off your chest that you need to talk about.”

You smile at him despite the ache in your cheeks. You take a couple deep, shaky breaths, fight back a cough, and tell him, “I.. think I need... a moment to... catch my breath first.” 

He folds his hands in his lap, and you wish for a moment that the gag was still on, so he could safely reach out and embrace you. Or at least touch you. “Take your time.”

Hours later, you wake up from the sedation, laid on your bed in your room. The terminal is giving off a low beep, and you push yourself up into a sitting position. Your arms burn, and one hand still has a hint of after-tingles from the numbness. You move to stand, and your thighs slide together wetly; your trousers cling to your crotch, damp with lube. Your bladder is crying for you to empty it, but the terminal takes precedence. Ignoring someone’s message to take care of base physical urges is selfish.

You shove yourself to your feet and stumble over to the terminal, shivering and wishing the ragged remains of your shirt kept the chill air out better.

There’s a series of notices of behavior credit losses and gains to read through. Things you confessed to, things you didn’t realize you were doing, things you did well. You tap the “accepted” button on the screen to acknowledge that you recognize what you’ve done wrong, and you pull up your credit total.

It’s lower now, but you have enough to get your clothes washed early and have hot water for your shower. But it’s not enough to both wash the new wet spot out of your sheets, and to get a new purple shirt. If you traded your goggles back in it would just barely bump you up enough, but you don’t want to give them up, even if he thinks they’re an emotional crutch you have to grow out of needing.

You type in the requests for hot water, laundered clothing, and a new grey shirt, then walk to the toilet and drop your trousers to relieve yourself.

You flinch as a testificate walks by and glances over. You hadn’t checked that no one was around before whipping it out, and now you’ve exposed yourself to the staff again. That’s going to put your behavior credits into the negative. At least you got your requests in before this happened, but you should have been more considerate and checked your surroundings before taking your trousers off.

The testificate vanishes through the hall door just as you run out of piss and can tuck yourself away again. With a sigh, you go report your misstep to the terminal. Sure enough, after a few moments for your report to get noticed and your credits to be updated, your score dips below zero and the numbers turn red.

Having negative credits is awful.

A few minutes later, you’re sitting with your spinning head down on the kitchen table, when the whump of a stack of papers hitting the floor makes you look over. The testificate who dropped them through the delivery slot is already backing warily away, and you wait for them to get past the minimum ten meter distance before you move to fetch the stack.

Leafing through, you sigh. It’s the obscenity worksheet again, and a stack of blank paper to do the work on. You look at the pile of crayons that was delivered with the paper. Only black and grey; he must be disappointed in you for messing up so soon after your personal time with him. You pick up a black crayon and read step one to make sure it’s the same as last time. “Write the following one hundred times to gain 3 behavior credits: I must not be obscene. Only animals and mad men expose themselves to others. I want to be an upstanding citizen. Upstanding citizens are not obscene.”

You pull out the first sheet of paper, then begin to write. You’d really been hoping you would get a chance to do some interesting work today and start saving up for that t-rex. But you won’t be doing any work now until you make up for your deficit and earn enough credit to request an apology chance so that you can write a letter apologizing to the testificate who saw you.

“I want to be an upstanding citizen.” you mutter along as you write; in a whisper, you add, “I wish I knew why I was like this.”

=== === ===


	2. Watching the Lamps Flicker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to allthe-lights-inthe-sky for help with brainstorming and proofreading.
> 
> This fic owes its existence to [this picture](http://mr-son-shrimp.tumblr.com/post/98787233885/wallcorpse-for-science) (NSFW). allthe-lights-inthe-sky and I were talking about Lalnable stuff, and this picture came to our attention and allthe-lights-inthe-sky suggested that what if Lalnable wasn't actually dangerous and Xephos was keeping him around as a sex toy slave? ...So this happened.

=== === ===

I am imprisoned in a glass cell in a laboratory.

I don't remember how long I've been here. There's no clock or calendar to keep track of time, and most of the scientists avoid the area so I can't ask or count them passing back and forth. Only _he_ approaches me regularly. He tells me that I've caused too much damage and need to be locked away; that I'm a danger to everyone and should probably be put down, but apparently we're too civilized for the death penalty and this will have to do. As if I'm really any more of a threat than Rythian, or Sjin, or even Honeydew. Is he talking about the nuke? Like he wasn't complicit in that!

My escape attempts aren't going well. He has this place on serious lockdown. There are guards armed with tranqs around every corner, and apparently past them are guards with proper guns. I woke up in the cell wrapped in a bandage already soaked through with blood, and a clean one on the table in the center of the room. I had to change my bandage myself, and I think I tore the wound a bit stretching to reach around. The stitches underneath were incredibly crude. Is there even a nurse on staff? Let alone a doctor. I'm suspicious that he might have actually tried to sew me up himself.

I've already lost track of how long I've been kept here. I also have nothing to mark days off on or with. My belt, with its metal buckle, was taken away a long time ago, and I'm only allowed to eat meals -- nothing but unsalted porridge with a worrying aftertaste -- with a plastic spoon. I tried once to scratch out lines in the glass floor under the bed with the metal rings for my shoelaces, but within hours my shoes were confiscated.

The next time I woke up, there was a folded pair of socks with a printed shoelace pattern on the bedside table.

I feel constantly tired, and I'm not sure if that's the poor diet, or the boredom. Though it's also possible that I'm not getting enough sleep. There's no clock in my room, and I'm only allowed to sleep when the lights dim at what supposedly is night. I get sprayed with freezing water if I try to get a nap in. I have no way to know if these sleep periods are the same length from 'night' to 'night'. I don't know if there's always the same amount of time between them. The whole concept of time feels alien in this place.

It's on purpose, I know. He's trying to get into my head. I knew we had our disagreements before -- that big fight about what sort of projects the testificates were useful for -- but I didn't think he'd take it out on me like this. I'm a danger to the people around me he says. It's more likely he wants to have a pet genius on heel. I wonder when he'll first absentmindedly 'let slip' about a problem he's been working on, knowing that I'll pick it over in my head until I have a solution.

"Are you trying to get us to confiscate your clothes as well?"

I look over my shoulder towards the door. He's staring at me through the glass, expression faintly curious. I sneer and tighten the knot I'd been tying. "You would, wouldn't you?"

"If necessary." He grabs one of the chairs in the hall and slides it up to the glass, sitting down to watch me as I start picking out another thread from my coat to add to my make-shift calendar. "We can't risk you making anything dangerous."

I snort and keep picking at the thread. "With string? I'm just working on some math. Do you mind?"

He shakes his head slowly. "You know I can't take your word for that."

Well, that's not surprising at all, is it? I don't bother to respond as I finish slipping the thread free and start tying it onto the rest. Behind me, I can hear his sigh, and the scrape of the chair as he pushes himself up again.

"I'll be back shortly." he says as he started walking away.

I can't resist sassing him, "I'm not going anywhere."

I've just sat down on the toilet when he shows up again, hands in his pockets. I don't bother trying to cover up. I'm tired of trying to stay modest about my body in this glass prison. His eyes pass over me like I'm an unusual pastry he hasn't eaten before -- tempting, but not worth trying right now. He opens the outer door of the door lock and enters.

"Stand up and turn around." he orders while sealing the outer door. He unlocks the inner door and swings it open. "Place your hands on the wall."

I laugh. "Kind of in the middle of something! You're going to have to wait a minute."

My body goes rigid. It feels like I've been stabbed in the side with a screwdriver. I can't tell if I'm screaming -- all there is for certain is the pain. I'm lying on the floor and my muscles feel like they're pulling off my bones and I can't breathe and-

It stops almost as abruptly as it started. As my muscles loosen, I curl automatically around the base of the toilet, cursing. I ache all over, but compared to the searing pain, it's almost pleasant. At the edge of my vision I can see him tucking the taser back into his pocket.

He grabs one of my arms and hauls me backward. I try to cling to the base of the toilet, but he jams his knee into the small of my back and gets a grip on my other hand. He wrestles my arms behind my back and cuffs them together.

I attempt to struggle free, but every motion pushes his knee into my back and the flair of pain stops me. Once I'm still, he removes his knee and hauls me upright by the handcuffs.

I let myself fall back against him when he tugs on me. Getting shit smeared onto his coat is a small rebellion, but it makes me feel better.

"Look at you." His voice in my ear has a hint of amusement that pisses me the hell off. "You're like an animal. Crawling on the floor. Covered in shit. Won't obey your betters. What worth do you have? None."

He spins the two of us around and shoves me into the center of the room. When I stumble over the chair, he lets me fall, still holding the cuffs so I'm left dangling from his grip inches off the floor.

"Fucking let go of me!"

"I don't listen to rubbish when it talks." His voice has gone flat and cold, and he gives the cuffs a jerk that makes it feel like my hands are getting torn off. "I know you're acting out on purpose to try to get me angry. You aren't worth the punishment you're going to get for this rebellious attitude. I should just leave you in a hole to rot. I'm too sentimental for my own good."

I spit on his shoes.

I'm dropped to the floor, and a foot lands on my shoulders. "Do you think you're being polite? Was that supposed to be a gift?" His heel grinds down against my spine, and I shriek in pain. "If you're looking to ruin my good will, you're going a great job of it." I wheeze as he presses his weight down, my lungs trying to lose air to make room for my spine. Then his foot lifts and I gasp, trying to suck in air because through the corner of my eye I can see his foot moving away from me.

The kick to my side drives the air back out of my lungs. He plants his foot on my stomach and shoves me against the table, then bends down beside me. I can feel tugging on my cuffs to the soundtrack of clicking metal, then he's standing up again.

I pant, trying to regain my breath. An experimental tug at my hands proves them fastened around the table's base. He looks down at me like a carved ice statue.

"I want you to think about your failures during this time out." Before I've caught my breath to laugh in his face, he stalks out of the room, leaving me on the floor under the table; smeared with shit, sore and aching, my trousers around my ankles.

\--- --- ---

I'm kept in a glass cell in a laboratory.

The scientists avoid me. I wish I could get one to come near the cell to talk. They're too afraid to release me, but I might be able to talk them into helping me in other ways. Better food, or clothes, or just some books to read.

My only way to keep track of time is to count in my head. I've tried counting out loud before, but he just comes by and sprays me with cold water. Says I'm disturbing his work and annoying security. The first day I thought that was a victory and kept counting, ignoring the continued water sprays. But as the temperature dropped in the evening I began to regret my lack of foresight. The wet clothes I left on the table failed to be replaced during the night like usual, and when I woke up shivering in the morning I had a choice between putting them on still soaked through, or spending the day nude. When he came by with my breakfast, he held me down and forced the clothes on. Apparently nudity is suddenly 'unacceptable', and I'm being held to certain standards of decency. I squelched with every movement as I ate my plain porridge.

According to my count it's been three hours and sixteen minutes since I woke up. I had breakfast at one hour and six minutes. He'll probably be by in the next hour; he likes to visit between meals. Most of the time he doesn't even speak to me, just sits outside the cell and reads psychology books. Does he think he can come up with a pretty argument to make me happy to be here?  
Three hours and forty-five minutes. I'm so bored. It's so boring. It's always boring. The footsteps of a testificate walking in the distance echoes down the hall. I strain to listen and appreciate the music of their footfalls. They rarely come this close to my cell. I feel irrationally disappointed when the sound fades into the distance.

I wander over the the toilet and jiggle the handle. The water vanishes down the hole with a roar and a gurgle, chased by the rush of water refilling the tank. The skin on my arms tingles as I reach out to flush again. The sound fills the room and my head and when the tank fills again I give it another flush.

I lose my time count while I call up the sounds of the water over and over. I'm starting to giggle at the sputter as the last of the water empties from the bowl, and with each flush it gets harder to stop laughing. Why didn't I do this sooner? It's like my own personal toilet song.

"Do you enjoy wasting water?"

I spin around, grinning widely. "Listen! It's beautiful!" I flush the toilet again, hand clamped over my mouth so I don't bury the music under my laughter. He raises an eyebrow and watches me as the tank plays its merry tune. As it dies off, I let the laughter free, gasping out between my cackles, "Isn't it great?"

"Yes, well. If you can't be responsible with your water usage, it will need to be taken out of your control."

I stare, not quite sure I understand. My brain feels a little fuzzy inside, like I'm waking up from a nap far too early. "You're... turning the water off?"

He nods as he opens the control panel for the cell's automatic systems. "We can't have you wasting precious resources. It's very selfish of you to steal water."

"Steal?!" How the fuck is this stealing?! I push myself to my feet -- when did I sit down? -- and stumble towards the door, fists tight and pulled back for a punch. It won't do anything but hurt my knuckles against the glass, but it will feel good.

He glares at me coldly. "Typical of you, resorting to violence." He presses something I can't see, and there's a hissing sound. A sweet scent fills the air, reminding me of mold dust dried out in the summer. My head feels heavy...

The floor smacks me in the face like a rude bastard. I press my hands against the glass. Okay, I fell down. That's okay. I'll just get back up and... and...

\--- --- ---

I'm stuck in this glass cell.

The transparent walls make it look larger than it really is. I don't have any reliable method of measurement, but I estimate it at six meters square. I could easily be comfortable in a bedroom this size, but as the entirety of my world, it galls.

I can't keep track of the days. I have trouble keeping them straight. Everything is the same, unless I do something that's forbidden and get punished. And a lot of things are forbidden.

Talking to myself gets me sprayed with cold water for 'being distracting'.  
Sleeping in gets me sprayed with cold water for 'being a worthless layabout'.  
Saving food for later means losing my next meal because 'obviously I'm being overfed' and 'hoarding is childish and wasteful'.  
Missing my scheduled shower time means being sprayed with cold water 'to get me clean' because I 'shouldn't be living in my own filth'. As if the shower wasn't going to be freezing anyway.  
And I can't flush the toilet more than once a day because I 'waste water'.

And masturbating...

My hand slips towards my waistline at the thought, and I stop just as I reach my trousers. My finger runs over the bunched fabric where the elastic pulls tight against my skin. It's been such a long time since I've had this pleasure. He can't be watching me right now, could he?

My fingers hover over my inseam, twitching like the whiskers of a nervous cat. The last time I touched myself, I had a damn cage installed over my dick for ages. I have no way to know how long ago that was, but I remember the difficulty I had taking a piss, the pain when I got hard and the bars pressed into my erection, getting sprayed with cold water when I took too long to use the toilet with it on...

I still my hand and pull it back, letting it rest on my stomach. It's not worth it. At least, not this time.

My cock is making a tiny hill on my trousers. It's so easy to get hard now, and so difficult to make it go away again. It's been too long. I sit up on my bed and look around. It's dark -- I'm supposed to be sleeping -- but there's enough light to see the area around my cell. Sometimes he watches me fall asleep. Says it's to make sure I'm following lights out rules. He doesn't seem to be here now.

My hand creeps towards my trousers again.

"Feeling lonely?"

I jerk my hand away so fast I fall off the narrow bed, smacking sideways onto the floor. I think my shoulder is going to have a serious mark on it tomorrow. I push myself to my knees and look to the door, where he stands, smirking slightly.

"You shouldn't try to be so unsocial when you're clearly craving company." The shadows around him make it hard to see where he's looking, but I suspect it isn't my face.

I get off the floor and sit down on my bed, folding my hands over my lap as if I could hide the evidence at this point. "Are you offering to be that company?" Heat is pooling between my legs, and it feels like surrender to even consider this, but I can't deny my loneliness and the desire to be touched.

There's a click in the darkness, and light floods the room suddenly. I smack my hand over my eyes with a hiss. I can hear the doors swinging open each in turn, a faint whisper of a noise, followed by the tapping of his footsteps crossing the room.

I peek out between my fingers at him as he reaches me. He has a roll of rope in his hand, and my stomach sinks at the sight. As his other hand softly settles on my shoulder, I consider trying to swat him away and accept being tased or sedated again for attacking him. I shift slightly, and the cloth of my trousers rubs on sensitive skin. Is it worth it? I think I might be beyond the question at this point. Even if it's not, I'm going to let him do this.

He pushes on my shoulder and I turn, letting him take my wrists and tie them together. He doesn't trust me not to start fighting him and make an escape attempt, obviously. Well he shouldn't. I stand at his pull on my arm, and he starts leading me towards the door.

"Where are we going?"

"Somewhere more private." His thumb presses into my shoulder and I can't tell if it's a threat, a warning, or supposed to be a comfort. "Do you believe it's acceptable to expose yourself and act lewdly where others can see you? Because it's not."

I swallow my first, sharp response. I don't want to make him angry and stop this, but it's hard to bite my tongue when I'm accused of being lewd because I need some affection, even this fake show of it. "If you say so." I manage after taking a moment to calm myself, and he pats me approvingly.

The flush of resentment at his condescension is weakened by the distraction of walking with an erection tenting my trousers. I'm grateful for the late hour and the lack of testificates in the halls. It's embarrassing enough parading in front of him like a show dog; an audience would be too much.

I almost fall over when his grip on my shoulder hardens, stopping me in my tracks. There's a plain, unmarked door beside us, and he gestures for me to enter. Inside is a modest room with a large bed against the far wall. It's not fancy, but I've gotten so used to my narrow, lumpy, thin mattress that I stop in shock at the sight of something that looks so plush and roomy.

A shove to the small of my back forces me to stumble into the room, and he slips in behind me, locking the door. I turn to glare at him, and he shakes his head. "You need to be more considerate of others. You did want me joining you in here, right?"

I swallow my words again and nod slowly. He smiles and starts towards the bed. After a moment, I follow.

The bed looks freshly made, with soft cotton sheets I wish I could run my hands over. Maybe he'll let me sleep here tonight? I can ask, after. He'll be more likely to allow it if he's happily post-orgasm, right?

His hands land on my shoulders and he nudges me around to face him. I open my mouth, not sure what I want to say, but the soft brush of his lips against my neck shuts me up. I suck in a heavy breath, and murmur his name into his ear. He rewards me with a gentle kiss to my jawline, a hand moving down from my shoulder to press against my hip.

My legs wobble, and I jerk back, landing on my ass on the bed, only his grip stopping me from falling backwards. He leans forward, chasing me down to press another kiss against my throat. I want to wrap my hands around him and pull him down, pressing chest to chest and groin to groin, rutting against him like a wild animal. I want to hear him gasp my name and feel him squeeze my ass as we tip each other over the edge. But I can only twitch my fingers uselessly behind my back, and groan his name in frustration.

He presses his lips to mine briefly, chuckling into the kiss. "You're in such a hurry. Don't you think you should take your time and make sure I enjoy myself as well?"

His fingers trace up my inseam, and I gasp. My hips jerk reflexively, trying to push up into the touch, but his other hand is pressing down on my thigh. A drop of sweat drips down my neck, a tickling line of cold on my skin. I need to have been naked since he started kissing me.

His fingers slip under my shirt and tease along the waist of my trousers. It's hard to keep myself from panting, but I manage to gulp enough air to say, "We should be wearing less clothes."

"Should we?" His fingers dip behind the hem of my trousers, just barely, the tips cool against my flushed skin. "I suppose I could get around to that for you. In a moment." His fingers trail down, following the curve of my hip back, until he's in position to give my ass a quick squeeze.

"You're a tease." I can't put any real heat into my complaint, not when he's rubbing and squeezing me like that, not when his other hand joins on the other side. I lean into his chest, moaning and craning my neck to plant kisses at the curve of his neck. "Please, don't stop."

I almost jump when a finger forces its way inside me. Without lube it's uncomfortable, almost burning. I try to relax, but when a second tries to join it I clamp down.

"I was under the impression you wanted this?" He raises an eyebrow at me like an asshole, and I scowl.

"Don't you have some lube or something?"

His hands slip out of my trousers, and he looks down at me disapprovingly, as if I was the one being an idiot here. "If you really need it, I can get some out."

I grit my teeth and growl out, "Please." He nods and vanishes into the second door in the room -- probably a bathroom? He's gone for less than a minute, striding out with a bottle in his hand. I feel a flush of heat just imagining him applying it; thick slippery liquid pouring over my sensitive skin, his hands slick and probing, his cock dripping as it salutes my naked body... My tongue flicks over my lips. When did they get so dry?

He thumbs the lube open as he returns to his place between my knees. A pool forms on his palm as he pours what is probably far too much into his hand. Setting the bottle aside, he rubs his hands together, letting the excess drip into the hair on my stomach and plastering it to my skin. He stares into my eyes, an unblinking challenge as his hands dip back into my trousers, and his fingers find my opening again.

"Clothes!" I whine as his fingers push inside, too thin and wet to more than tease as they thrust and squirm. His free hand squeezes and rubs my ass, forceful and rough, and I know I'll have bruises when I wake up but I don't care he can do that forever as long as something starts touching my aching cock right this moment.

His fingers vanish from inside me, and I press my face into his chest with a whimper. It's not fair to just stop like that with no warning. His hand pushes down on my shoulder, and for a moment his entire weight is on me as he lifts himself onto the bed, his knees landing on either side of my hips, his crotch on mine. I wince in reflex, even though it doesn't really hurt. The hand that's still in my trousers resumes groping my ass cheek, while the other slips up my shirt.

"Please, clothes!" I try again. He pinches my nipple and gives it a light twist. It feels nice, but I need his hands on my cock, and he seems determined to touch every part of my body except where I want it the most. "Please!"

His hands pull out of my clothes, and he sits back with a twitch of his hips that leaves me gasping at the feel of his erection against mine, even through the layers of fabric. "I don't believe I understand what you're asking. Maybe you should try using full sentences?"

This utter fuckhead. "Please _take my clothes off!_ " I grit out between my teeth.

He makes a show of considering before he answers, "Hm. If that's what you want."

He pushes my coat back on my shoulders, slipping it down my bound arms until it's basically another level of restraint. A puff of air ghosts over my shoulders, cool through my tshirt, which he's already starting to roll up out of his way.

He jams the roll of my shirt up between my arms and my back, then turns his attention to my trousers. His fingertips slip down my sides, light enough to tickle and make me squirm in place while he smirks at my discomfort. He pauses, twitching his hands like he wants to stop and tickle me properly, but then seems to change his mind and he hooks his fingers into the hem of my trousers. He pulls down slowly, the fabric sliding along my thigh at a cruel speed, crawling over my hips and cock like a glacier leaving the mountains.

I keen softly. He leans forward, his smile amused and patronizing, and I press my face into his neck. I'm so close to free, but he's taking forever to get my damn trousers off and I just want him to already be on my cock. He plants a kiss against my shoulder and _lifts his hands away_. I whine a wordless objection into his ear, and he has the audacity to chuckle.

"Patience." He says, like he's not taking his time for the express purpose of driving me up the fucking wall. I want to growl at him, but it's too difficult to do anything but whimper and plead against his throat. He laughs again, and kneads at my ass for a moment. "Let me have some time to play, too."

This entire time has been him playing with me, but I manage to swallow down my desperation and nod against his skin. He sits back to kiss me warmly on the lips, pulling away when I lick at him, trying to deepen the kiss.

"Wait." he says, and I pull a face, but don't move as he drops off my lap and stands beside the bed again. He unzips his fly one-handed, while also reaching into his trousers and fumbling with himself. After a moment, his cock pokes itself out, not quite fully hard, but making a good show of it.

I swallow to prevent myself from drooling at the sight. I want to take him in my lips and roll my tongue over him until he's crying my name, fingers tangled in my hair, pushing down into my throat as he comes. I want to play with his foreskin teasingly until he's begs me to take him in hand -- and I would -- and help him find release. I want to wrap my arms around him as he fucks me into the mattress, holding me in a desperate kiss until we can barely breathe.

I wriggle in place, and my cock mercifully slips free, slapping against my belly before settling down against the hem of my trousers. He laughs, and takes himself in hand, rubbing absently at his shaft with a thumb. His laughter fades out gently as he leans in, releasing his cock to reach forward and take my trousers again. He slides them down, past my knees, along my calves, and finally over my feet. Free of their grip, I spread my legs wide, inviting him in.

He stands again, throwing my trousers away across the room in a motion that's as stupid as it is sexy. His hands reach for me again, down below my throbbing erection, sliding along the skin behind my testicles to find my hole again. "What do you want?" he asks, and slips his fingers into me before I have a chance to respond.

I gasp as he stretches me roughly, burying my mouth into his shoulder to cut off my pained moan before he thinks I want him to stop. More fingers make their way into me, pulling out the skin and forcing me wide and gaping open. I pant against him until I can relax enough to murmur into his ear, "I want... you to fuck me."

His response is to slide more fingers into me, seeming to be hunting for my body's limits. He's not so big he needs me this loose -- he's just playing with me again. I want to complain but if he hits my prostate all the teasing will be forgiven instantly.

My penis is feeling pretty lonely, and my fingers are twitching with the urge to take matters into my own hands. He shrugs my head off his shoulder and captures my mouth in a kiss. I open up, hoping he'll deepen it, but he pulls away and leaves me to drool down my chin. I try to lick it off while he smirks at me.

"Lay back." he says. I struggle to obey, but it's hard to shift my weight properly with my hands bound unless I want to fall over and crush them. I'm just starting to think I've got myself balanced right, when he ducks down and shoves me with his head, sending me tumbling onto my back.

I yelp, my shoulders flaring in pain. I don't think I pulled anything, but it was a close call. "You asshole!" I growl out, and he laughs at me again, pulling his hands out of my ass and grasping his cock firmly.

"Ready?" He's already pushing into me, smooth as the flow of power through a perfectly arranged circuit. He starts up a quick rhythm, seeming to have gotten his fill of teasing me. I wrap my legs around him to pull him deeper into me, squeezing my eyes closed to block out any sensation I can that's not his cock moving inside me. A thumb presses against my eyelid and pulls it open. "Don't hide your eyes."

Is the asshole trying to be romantic? He takes the hand away again and I open my eyes to squint at him. He's staring down at me with a steady, unreadable gaze that contrasts eerily with his pounding into my ass. The expression vanishes as he moans, dropping down onto his hands on the bed, his face leaning down over mine. I could lean up and kiss him, but I've lost the urge.

When did I start getting the impression this was going to be anything but pure physical release? My cock is still aching for touch, but the rest of me is cooling down. He drops a kiss onto my cheek and I turn my head away before he can plant another. Just fuck me. Let's get this done, and stop this farce of affection before I start getting convinced that you actually give a damn about my feelings.

I prop my feet against the edge of the mattress to help keep my knees wide as he fucks me. I can't say it doesn't still feel nice, getting pounded down into the bed. I just wish he'd touch me.

His breath catches, and finally a hand closes around my shaft. He pumps me much quicker than I want, gasping into my neck and whispering my name over and over. I can feel myself tipping towards the edge, and I moan out a warning seconds before I orgasm. He speeds his stroking as I spray myself over his fancy shirt. I clamp down reflexively and he comes, groaning against my shoulder, his thrusts slowing down until he pulls out of me with the grossest possible sound.

He pushes himself up off me and stays, hands on either side of my head as he watches me, his breath heavy and hot on my face. I want to pull him back down and hold him for a bit -- even if he really would be the worst person to cuddle with.

With the rush of my orgasm fading, shame makes its way in to wreck my afterglow. Why would I have ever let that happen? Was this worth it? Finally having release after so long denied? I probably could have just weathered the horniness. This was a mistake.

He sits back on the edge of the bed and fumbles for something in his coat. I try to roll away when he pulls out the needle, but he slams it into my shoulder before I can get my legs untangled from his.

"Don't worry." he says as cold floods my veins, "This is just to make it easier to return you to your cell."

"You could have just walked me back." I try to shout, but it comes out a slur. I attempt to push him off the bed with a foot, but my leg won't leave the sheets. The cold isn't in my veins any more, it's through my whole body. My eyes slide closed and I fight to open them again, but they refuse me.

"Shh." he says.

\--- --- ---

I hate this glass cell.

I hate it when the testificates walk past, never looking at me. They seem to think eye contact will make me lunge through the glass and snap their necks. As if I could get through this stuff if I had a sledgehammer.

I tap my fingers against the wall. It's so thick that it doesn't sound hollow, even when I switch to banging my knuckles into it. The hall on the far side is empty -- has been empty -- will remain empty. The cowardly testificates passing through are a rarity. I screamed at them, last time, "Look at me!" They never even glanced over as they hurried past.

Xephos used to come by more often, I think? Or maybe he didn't, and I'm just forgetting the time between his visits. I have trouble remembering things that happened only days ago. Sometimes I'll be eating lunch and realize I don't remember it getting dropped off.

How old am I now?

I scratch my beard. It's getting thick and long again. I'll probably be sedated soon so he can shave it down to normal; I'm not allowed a razor, not even a safety razor. His precautions are ridiculous. He can put me out in seconds with whatever gas it is he's using to flood my cell. How dangerous am I if I have a knife? Even a butter knife. I'm sick of only getting pre-buttered toast. It's cold and soggy by the time I get it.

I pace my cell, carefully back from the door. He's started hitting me with small electrical shocks if I spend too much time near the cell's entrance. He claims it's threatening and aggressive to skulk around the doorway -- looking like I'd pounce on anyone who came through.

Which I fucking would, but the only one who comes into the cell is him, and he always has the upper hand with a taser, or a needle full of sedative, ready to knock me to the floor at his mercy. Not that it prevents me from taking a swing at him once in a while, just to prove I'm still fighting him.

My hands clench into fists automatically, and I wince as the skin on my knuckles cracks open again. They've been bleeding all morning, since my restless sleep last night rubbed off my scabs on the blankets.

Punching myself raw on the glass had been idiotic. Even if he'd taken me out of the cell for treatment, why would I have been conscious for it? But he didn't even do that. He blasted me with a paralytic gas, leaving me awake but unable to move as he wrestled me onto my bed and cleaned my wounds. He rubbed antibiotic ointment on, then left without even bandaging me up, leaving me to heal on my own.

I was also scolded for committing self-harm, and had my cell searched and every loose item in it past my spare socks was confiscated. Not that I had much. A few half-gone crayons, a mug of water for getting a midnight drink without leaving bed, a bottle of shampoo. My hair's been getting pretty nasty. I haven't been able to wash it with my torn up hands and no shampoo. He keeps scolding me for poor hygiene but how the fuck am I supposed to get clean?

I growl as the door in the outer room swings open and he strides through, smug as a CEO with an excuse to cancel Christmas bonuses. He grabs the chair from the back wall and drops it down near the glass, taking a moment to arrange the flaps of his coat properly.

"So, how are you feeling today?" he asks, tone pleasant and faintly concerned, the effect ruined by the patronizing smirk the words leak out of.

I get a brief fantasy of vomiting through the food delivery hole. I bet I could splash his coat from here. But he'd only punish me for 'wasting food'. I clench my teeth and lie, "Better."

"That's good." He sets one hand down on his knee while the other slips into his coat pocket. Is he readying his taser? He fiddles with whatever tool, toy, or torture device he has in there while he continues addressing me, "And the blood on your sheets?"

I raise my hand up to show him my bloody knuckles, and after a moment's consideration, raise up my middle finger at him. His smirk fades slightly, and he sighs. "You really should learn to act with something approaching manners." His other hand sinks into the opposite pocket. He isn't tasing me or turning on the cold water or gas yet, so I take the chance and give him the other finger as well.

He drops his head back onto the headrest of the chair and sighs again. There's a long stretch of silence while he continues playing with himself or whatever he's doing, and I hold my fingers up in the air. A trail of blood slowly oozes down the back of my wrist, and I ignore the itch as it tickles its way into my arm hairs.

I finally decide he's not going to react further, and drop my salute and wander over the to sink to wash the blood off.

"It takes an unhealthy mind to think hurting yourself will solve your problems."

I run water over my knuckles, resisting the urge to rub -- which will only hurt and tear the healing skin open, then grip the sink hard enough to worsen the flow of blood. He's trying to goad me into acting up so he can punish me again. The most infuriating thing is that's it's going to work; I can only delay it, biting down on my anger as long as possible.

"It's also very rude to not acknowledge someone who's speaking with you."

I turn my head, just enough to see him out of the corner of my eye. He's still fooling around in his pocket. "It's also rude to wank off while talking with someone."

He sits forward in the chair, not stopping the suspicious motion. Is he actually wanking at me right now? Seriously? I'm starting to think he's actually got a hand on his cock right this moment. "You've got a filthy mind. You shouldn't be projecting your issues onto the people around you. Assuming other people share the same deviant inclinations normalizes your feelings when you should be working to reject and change them instead."

I wince. I'm pretty sure he's wrong about my feelings being deviant, but I don't really have any basis for comparison any more. I can't really remember much about my life before I was locked into this cell. How did the people around me feel about sex? It's not like I had lengthy conversations about it. Maybe I _am_ being weird.

He stands, hands still in his pockets. "I'm glad we could talk about this. I was worried you would be trying to hurt yourself again, but I see you're trying to take care of your wounds now. Watch yourself more carefully in the future. We only get one body and we need to take care of it."

Once his footsteps fade away down the hall, I ball up a fist and punch the wall behind the sink. I don't stop until gas floods the room and steals my ability to continue.

\--- --- ---

I live in a glass cell.

I don't know why I'm here. Is there even a reason? He doesn't seem to want anything from me beyond 'proper behavior' -- which as far as I can tell is acting like I like him and enjoy being here. I try to pretend that I do. It's easier to pretend than to keep fighting and getting punished. I'm always getting punished for something. He expects me to know how to act the right way, but I can't see the pattern behind his rules and guess how I'm supposed to behave in any given situation until he tells me. And he only tells me after I screw up.

He says that I should be able to figure these things out on my own. That despite my obvious social inadequacies I'm intelligent and I simply need to stop and think before I act. That I need to consider the feelings and needs of the people around me, and whether I'm being selfish about taking their time and energy when I can manage things myself.

I roll over in bed, my gut churning painfully at the motion. My blankets are sticky with sweat, even worse than last night. But apparently there's scheduled times for my laundry to get done and the person who does it is too busy to take any extra loads for me. I want to curl up tighter against the chill I feel even while wrapped in my blankets, but if I put any pressure on my stomach I think I might throw up.

I've only managed to get a small amount of sleep tonight. It was hard settling down in bed with the fever and the twisting in my stomach, but after the pain woke me up I couldn't get back to sleep again, and I keep having to turn over since laying still in the same spot for too long starts making my skin ache and itch where it presses into the mattress.

The churning moves lower in my abdomen, and I shove myself up. The pain spikes and I know I need to get to the toilet fast. I stand far too swiftly, and I have to bend down to lean on my dresser as my head swims and I swallow back the nausea. My throat spasms, and I start coughing. I can't even try to fight it; my chest heaves and my throat burns, and I gasp a lungful of air seconds before I heave up my dinner across the floor. A few splashes reach all the way up to my bed, and I stare weakly at the yellow-green flecks that don't really look the same as they had in the soup. My stomach rolls again, and the second load tastes like it's half bile -- foul and burning as it flows over my tongue.

As my stomach constricts a third time, my back end surrenders, and warmth soaks my trousers. I give up trying to hold myself steady and stumble for the shower. I need to get my trousers off and into the hamper before the mess spreads everywhere, but I can feel the liquid sliding down my legs as I shuffle across my cell, and without looking I know I'm leaving a trail over the glass.

I strip completely, throwing my outfit into the hamper slot in the wall. Being naked and having him angry at me for nudity is better than being covering in literal shit and having him angry at me for filthiness. I turn the shower on, the shock of the cold water sending me into another coughing fit. This time my vomit is pure bile, and when my throat stops clenching, I turn my head up to drink from the shower and rinse my mouth.

I manage to scrub myself clean just barely before the water cuts out. The light indicating that I've used up my water rations for the shower clicks on, and I lean against the wall and ride out another wave of dizziness and nausea.

When I feel a bit more stable, I return to my bed, careful not to step in the stinking trail I left on the floor. The bed is sprinkled lightly with drops of vomit, but seems to still be free of shit. I strip off the blanket and fold it crudely, dumping it onto my chair. The sheet underneath is thin, but clean, and I move the pillow onto the dresser before settling down onto the mattress and stretching out again.

The cold air floats over my skin and I curl up, my stomach feeling more restful now that it's empty.

I'm only half-asleep when the footsteps approach. I sit up, blinking blearily at him as he stares into my cell with what looks like genuine shock. I should say something to him -- greet him -- he says it's polite, but the nausea has come back with a vengeance and I'm worried that if I open my mouth I'll start vomiting again, and there's nothing left inside me that I can afford to lose.

"Are you ill?" he asks after a moment, pulling out his pocket computer and typing something in.

I manage a small nod, which sends my brain spinning in circles. I need to get up and use the toilet, but I don't think I can keep my feet right now. I clench my cheeks as tight as possible and hope that if I stay sitting up for a little longer, I'll adjust to the point where I can stand.

"Lay down." he orders, and I force my head to shake. I clamp my eyes shut against the spinning, my hands gripping the edge of the mattress to hold my balance in place.

There's a hiss, and the air fills with the dusty-sweet scent of the knockout gas. I collapse, thankfully backwards onto the bed, and I lose hold of my bowels. Fuck, I've literally shit the bed. I don't even know why that's funny.

I wake up on an unfamiliar surface. It moves under me as I push myself upright, and I stop. But my head is steady, and my stomach is settled. The surface actually was moving. It wasn't just the illness throwing me about again; I'm on a wobbly cot, and my sitting up was making it shake. I stand, cautiously. My legs feel a little weak, and my balance isn't quite there, but I think I could walk without keeping a hand on the wall to steady myself. I turn to look down at the cot I'd been sleeping on, tucked into the corner next to my cell's toilet. It's a tiny thing, marred by old stains and clumsy repair jobs, but I'm glad he didn't just drop me back on the ruined mattress.

My nose seems to catch on to the whole 'waking up' plan, and my stomach flops weakly as I notice the smell. I turn to stare at the untouched mess over the floor. My mattress is gone -- as are my pillow and blanket -- leaving the bare bedframe, but the floor is not only still filthy, there are footprints up to the edge of the door. Outside my cell, it's spotless. Just under my food delivery hole is a full bucket with a rag hanging on its handle.

I'm supposed to clean this myself? My gut rolls over and twitches. I'm not even sure I'm done contributing to it. I bend down by the bucket and see a sticky note on its side.

"You should be less messy. Here's some cleaning supplies. Try not to live in your own filth."

\--- --- ---

I live in a glass room.

=== === ===

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic owes its name to the Wikipedia article on [gaslighting](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gaslighting).
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> [This fic on Tumblr](http://mr-son-nsfw.tumblr.com/post/104531839719/watching-the-lamps-flicker)

**Author's Note:**

> This fic owes its name to the Wikipedia article on [gaslighting](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gaslighting).


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